


Ephemeral

by hipster-yams (madamedicelia)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: AU, Fluff, Ghosts, M/M, and hipster trash oiks, but cute not scary, old houses, please consider iwaizumi being an awkward child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamedicelia/pseuds/hipster-yams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi has been traveling around since he was young due to his parent's work. At one old mansion, he finds a bit more adventure than he wanted (but he totally secretly wanted it).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ephemeral

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaaa sorry I've mia so long! College takes so much of my time and effort nehhhh. I enjoy my classes and all but now that the semester is over, I finally have time to write what I want.
> 
> Enjoy this mess??¿¿¿¿

The ceiling arches high, supported by marble pillars carved with obscure references to old Greek texts. The matching floor is dusty and cracked near the walls, worn dull near the doors by traffic. The leather wallpaper is peeling at the sides and the silver printing is tarnished. The old furniture had been taken away to be restored so the empty room echoes even the quietest creaks and whispers. It reverberates the tears of stained wallpaper being ripped down by the restoration crew next door. It has a haunting yet comforting feel and oh-so explorable. And yet, Iwaizumi is not allowed anywhere. 

The stairs creak as he descends, the once opulent carpet now shabby and ripped. The railing is similarly lackluster from overuse and disuse. Old houses are weird like that. Too many people using furniture and living in a house left it threadbare and flat. Too few left them dusty and weak. Seeing both signs in one place gave the space an air of comfort and loneliness. 

Iwaizumi’s parents are restoration experts. They’re called around the country to help make decrepit, historically important buildings look pretty again. Since they like to personally monitor their work, they often live in said building. However, much to Iwaizumi’s annoyance, they’re not allowed to stay in the fancy bedrooms of the rich and elegant. They have to camp out in the servant quarters. What a glamorous life. 

While Iwaizumi’s parents work all day, he’s left to wander. Well, strategically wander. He wasn’t allowed to mess with anyone’s work or enter rooms that were already done. He doesn’t mind so much but it gets boring real fast looking at the same rooms.

A shadow at the last pillar causes Iwaizumi to pause. It’s not unusual to have construction workers or the likes creeping around but Hajime is not one to seek out social interaction. Since his family moves around so often, he’s taught with online school courses and rarely is able to keep in contact with friends through his travels. He’s never been the type to text or call. His acquaintances never felt connected enough to him to bother either. He’s grown accustomed to his own company. He guesses it would be nice to have a constant friend. However, if everyone he’s known has distanced themselves so quickly, then maybe he hasn’t found anyone worthy of being close to. Who needs fake friends anyways? 

Reaching the bottom, Hajime looks around quickly. He finds nothing. He expected as much. Sounds of sanding and sawing flow from the hallway across the room so he walks in the opposite direction. A secret grotto underneath the stairs is leaking water and is green with moss. A warped wall of mirrors shows his distorted reflection broken up by patches of silver that had been scratched off. The room is wavy and the tarnishes make it look cloudy and sepia, as if it’s a dream. Iwaizumi smiles at the carnival-like amusement. He sticks out his tongue. 

A sudden bang makes him flinch and step back. Workers mumble about heavy tools and continue about their business. Iwaizumi exhales in relief, glad no one caught him in his childish moment. How embarrassing that would be. 

Iwaizumi tiptoes into the next room, still on edge about the workers nearby. It’s accurate to say the room is huge but in an ancient mansion of the wealthy, it should be assumed everything is obscenely huge and elaborate. This space boasts a fresco on the ceiling, playing out some Bible scene he couldn’t quite place. The terracotta-tiled floors were famous for some reason that Iwaizumi couldn’t remember. The windows are open and the ocean breeze blows in crumpled leaves. He imagines it must have looked elegant when it had gauzy curtains years ago. 

The bookshelves are falling and empty, save for cobwebs and thick layers of dust. Iwaizumi looks closer and spots a tiny black journal wedged into the end of a bottom shelf. It’s like someone hid it there. It looks weathered and frail and the red ribbon tying it is frayed and thin. _I shouldn’t move it_ , Iwaizumi thinks. _But… it’s the only one here so maybe it’s not worth anything. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to just look?_

With nimble fingers, Iwaizumi picks up the journal and pulls the ribbon. It’s dated 1925 and has the initials O.T. pressed in the leather cover. 

Iwaizumi reads the first entry. It details what the owner ate for breakfast that day. He frowns slightly. Somehow he thought this would be more exciting. The entry closes with a promise of crashing a party that was taking place that night. Sounds like the boisterous tales of a spoiled hooligan. Iwaizumi shakes his head slightly in amusement as he reads the entries. 

“Find something of interest?”

Iwaizumi jumps, nearly dropping the diary. A young man stands in front of him with an eyebrow raised. He seems to be a teenager, about his age, and maybe a bit taller. His hair is bounces as he rocks on his heels, his chin held high. _He looks like a hipster,_ Iwaizumi thinks noting the button-up and suspenders and thick-framed glasses. He begrudgingly admits he’s rather handsome. 

“Who are you?” Iwaizumi demands. 

The intruder bows dramatically, the movement just barely hiding his smirk. “I’m Oikawa Tooru. Who are _you_?”

“I’m Iwaizumi Hajime,” he says, frowning. “How did you get in here? It’s supposed to be blocked off.”

Oikawa waves a hand. “Such paltry efforts couldn’t keep anyone who really wanted to get in out.”

“Uh.” Hajime scrunches up his face. 

Oikawa smiles reassuringly. “Don’t look so worried; I’ve got just as much reason to be here as you do.”

Iwaizumi chews his lip. _Didn’t Mom say one of her assistants had a kid? I guess this is him?_

“So are we going to explore this place or no?” Oikawa holds out a hand, eyebrows raised.  
Iwaizumi shuffles his feet. His shoes are scuffed with age and clumsiness, the sole coming unglued near the toe. The white edges are brown and beige from his bug hunting in murky streams and muddy forests. The tile beneath them is dull and one square is chipped on the corner. _This guy seems really pretentious… But it’s not like I have anything better to do._

“Well, they just started and the workers are all on the other side so-”

“Great!” Cutting off his rambling, Oikawa takes Iwaizumi’s hand and drags him to a giant wardrobe in the corner. He throws open one of the doors and begins pawing through its contents.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” Iwaizumi mumbles, hovering beside Oikawa. “The preservers are supposed to be the ones who move everything first.”

Oikawa sighs and places his hands on his face. “How have you lived your life being so boring?”

Iwaizumi squawks in annoyance and surprise. 

“You have to learn to be a little adventurous. Acquire stories that intrigue people.”

Oikawa pulls out a suit jacket and holds it up to himself. 

“You look like a pretentious asshole.”

Oikawa looks offended and scoffs before smiling. “Now that’s the spirit.” He throws the jacket on Iwaizumi’s shoulders and sports a bowler hat himself.

“We’re going to get yelled at,” Iwaizumi comments, picking at the frayed sleeves. Clothes are especially off limits because they’re so delicate and used that very few pieces survive. 

“Only if we get caught,” says Oikawa with a wicked grin. A pang of fear and annoyance laced with excitement rolls in Iwaizumi’s stomach. 

Oikawa grabs Iwaizumi’s arm and leads him to the adjacent room. 

“Why, Iwa-chan, this hall here is where my dear sister used to host tea parties,” Oikawa announced in an exaggerated accent. “It was a spiffing good time. Someone always ended up on the balcony in only their dressing gown and once the tea leaves were nearly set aflame! Wild times.”  
“Your accent sounds atrocious.”

Oikawa whirls around and pokes a finger into Iwaizumi’s chest. “I sound elegant.” Spinning back, he resumes, “Now, if you won’t join me in the grand tour of my humble abode, I shall have to leave you to your drab life of sitting around staring at paint dry.”

“I am not drab!” Iwaizumi counters. He grew very conscious of how often people avoided him and of how all those hours wandering achieved nothing essentially. He coughs and peruses the wallpaper. “But I guess a little exploring would spice things up.”

Oikawa huffs in victory and picks up his pretentious accent again. “Now then, where was I? Ah yes, the burning tea! What a doozy that night was.”

They spent hours like that. Oikawa blabbing on about tales of this and that as they ambled around the house. Hajime let himself be dragged along and occasionally quipped a response. He was wary of Oikawa’s cheeky histrionics and his ease about wandering into restricted spaces but no one came at them with pitchforks and torches so Iwaizumi eventually calmed down. After all, they toured all the room yet to be renovated so it wasn’t _exactly_ rule breaking. 

Iwaizumi laughed at Oikawa’s stories, earning him either a sly smile or an affronted, “So mean, Iwai-chan!” The latter usually happened when Oikawa let something embarrassing slip like when he got locked outside by accident at night because he wanted to watch a meteor shower and ended up sleeping in the horse stables. Iwaizumi wasn’t sure how much was real and how much was make believe but he secretly enjoyed listening anyways. 

By evening, they end up taking a break in the tearoom. There is no furniture left so they balance on one of the windowsills. It’s wide enough that they both just barely fit, their knees leaning against each other and calves touching. Thank goodness those pretentious rich people who designed this house made everything so oversized. Oikawa traces the warped glass with one finger before turning towards Iwaizumi. 

“Iwai-chan, what are you doing on your phone?”

Iwaizumi clutches his phone to his chest, hiding the screen.

“Nothing.”

Oikawa squints at him. “Lies.”

Hajime breaks into a sweat. He has no lusty messages (because how do you even get friends on the Internet, let alone _that_?), no torrid pictures or stories, nothing. All the screen shows is a game. Absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. Except Iwaizumi is. He is ashamed that a stupid game about hitting some circles as they appear as trashy pop music plays has monopolized so much of his time and thoughts. Fuck this game. Fuck Oikawa for being nosey about his interests. 

“If it’s nothing, then let me take a look,” Oikawa suggests, reaching out a hand and balancing the other on Iwaizumi’s knee.

Hajime shakes his head, clicking off his phone. Undeterred, Oikawa leans closer and makes a grab for the phone. Iwaizumi raises it above his head, knowing he’s got a few inches of height over Oikawa due to their positions. 

Oikawa wouldn’t let a trifling thing like height get in his way and pushes down on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Hajime loses balance and Oikawa collapses on him, his elbow digging into his hip. Oikawa is surprisingly light but upsets Iwaizumi’s precarious balance on the sill. In his efforts to support the extra weight, Iwaizumi accidentally flings his phone across the room. He flinches as it hits the ground and cracks the tile, though the screen looks solid, much to his relief. His mother calls his name from the next room.

“What was that? You better have not broken anything in there; we just finished that room.”

“Run.” Oikawa slides off Iwaizumi and sprints for the door. 

Iwaizumi is frozen in shock. He thought the room had yet to be restored. Oikawa barely leaves his line of sight before his mother shows up. 

“Hajime? What happened?” she asks, looking around. She spots his phone on the floor and walks over to pick it up. Iwaizumi opens his mouth to explain but she interrupts. “Why is this on the floor? Oh, no this tile is chipped!”

Iwaizumi lets his breath go and resigns himself to a lecture. He’s never broken anything in a house before but based on the delicacy his parents use with everything, he assumes breaking anything is a pretty bad offense. Fuck Oikawa for ruining his already precarious reputation with his parents. 

His mother sighs. Iwaizumi sucks in a breath and braces himself. “It’s an easy fix but be careful next time, okay? Restoration is expensive as is.” Handing his phone back, she shakes her head and leaves.

Iwaizumi plays with the corner of his phone case, snapping it on and off. He’s pleasantly surprised with his mother’s reaction. He feels guilty for causing extra work but is surprised that the rules his parents laid down weren’t as strict as he thought. Don’t play in finished rooms, don’t touch relics, don’t break anything, the list went on and on. However, he’d done most of those things in the last couple hours alone and wasn’t reprimanded for it. Iwaizumi must’ve built up the severity of those rules until they were practically law in his head and forgotten their basis. As long as he respects the house, Iwaizumi is free to do whatever. It was a strangely liberating thought. Still, he’s going to chew Oikawa out for running out like that. 

Oikawa doesn’t come back until the next day. He somehow finds Iwaizumi in a far corner, reading the diary he found on the first day. 

“What’s that?” Oikawa asks, leaning far too close over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. His breath tickles Iwaizumi’s neck. 

“Your breath smells, back off. And it’s a diary I found. The author has the same initials as you. This sounds an awful lot like you, too” Iwaizumi says, looking at Oikawa’s too-close face. “I swear you told me this exact story of being locked out at night the other day.” 

Oikawa leans back and holds his hands up in surrender. “You caught me; I stole all my stories from that diary.” 

“And here I thought you were actually a good story teller,” Iwaizumi remarks. 

Oikawa huffs indignantly. “I can come up with my own adventures too, I’ll have you know.”

“Prove it.”

Oikawa grins, smug as a box of cats. Dread and excitement fill Iwaizumi’s veins. _What have I done._

Oikawa drags Iwaizumi by the hand to the ballroom. The fresco on the ceiling opens above them in a mass of clouds and Greek gods. The pearls and whites and greys melt into the gilded pillars and burnished mirrors. Heavy brocade curtains sway in the breeze, their stiff edges brushing against the wallpaper. The refurnished wood floors reflect the sun more than the mirrors. It feels disorientating to see his shadow meld with his reflection before dissociating into dark browns and bright golds. It smells like paint and glue. 

“Take off your shoes,” Oikawa commands. He leans over to pull off his loafers. 

Iwaizumi squints at the other boy but complies and pulls at his laces. He gently places his shoes near the window, next to Oikawa’s messily thrown ones. Oikawa slinks up to him and places his hands on his hips, pulling him close. Iwaizumi gasps, staring into Oikawa’s eyes. They are startlingly dark. Iwaizumi is so close he can see the mangrove-like web of browns and chestnuts and chocolates all growing towards to his dark pupil. 

“Now we dance,” Oikawa announces, stepping to the side and gently pressing his side to guide him. 

“Uh, I don’t know how-” Iwaizumi starts. He clumsily grips on Oikawa’s thin shoulders. 

“You will now.” Oikawa winces when Iwaizumi steps on his foot but he keeps stepping. Iwaizumi figures it must be a waltz based on the pattern. He frantically digs up memory of the three four time and stepping square but his feet won’t cooperate. He tries to peer over his arms. Maybe if he watches his feet they’ll move correctly.

“Don’t look down; it’s too informal.”

Iwaizumi quashes down his longing for his phone to look up a WikiHow article of the waltz and locks his squinting gaze with Oikawa’s. 

“What makes you think anything about this is formal.”

Oikawa tips his head back and laughs. There’s no other word for it than twinkling and lighted. It’s filled with airy gasps and wrinkles around his eyes. No human should be allowed to make such a pretty noise. “Certainly not the company.”

“That’s not very gentlemanly of you,” Hajime retorted. 

“And are you my fair date?” Oikawa smirked through another, more purposeful foot stomp.  
Iwaizumi scoffed and grunted out a negation. However, he turned to look out the windows, suddenly deeply intrigued by the grass and furiously ignoring the heat rising up his neck. Oikawa let out a floating giggle, his breath brushing Iwaizumi’s neck. 

Their socks glide across the floor and they nearly tumble when Oikawa decides to attempt some more advanced moves. Iwaizumi precariously spins on the tip of his toes, holding onto Oikawa’s hand and shoulder for dear life while cussing him out for dragging him into this ridiculous situation. He doesn’t stop dancing. There is no music. They don’t need it. The sounds of their flirts and laughs and swears and stumbles are enough. 

The next days are a similar a series of shenanigans ranging from sliding across the to riding trays down the servants’ staircase (“The friction would ruin the main staircase, Ass-kawa!” Iwaizumi scolded) to filling the giant kitchen sinks with bubble water and using bent wires to blow bubbles. Oikawa would suggest a completely outrageous plan and Iwaizumi would try to bring it down to a scale they could actually achieve without killing anyone. Their plots weren’t anything illegal or grand but Oikawa’s wild stories and personality made it feel like Iwaizumi was partaking in something daring. He’d always wanted to do these types of things but was too much of a goody two shoes to build up the courage to actually do anything. Besides, most of these things would be kind of sad to do alone. He’d never admit it out loud but he enjoyed deviating from his usual plans and Oikawa wasn’t such a bad person to do that with. 

Hajime doesn’t bother telling his parents about Oikawa. They stopped paying attention to his news years ago. They only nod and hum at semi-appropriate moments. Iwaizumi stopped bothering to tell them anything about his personal life. It only hurt him more to see their apathy. They only converse about their work and future projects. Iwaizumi wonders if he was an accidental baby, the product of a careless night of frolic and passion. 

A few days later, Iwaizumi and Oikawa meet up after dinner in the master study. Hajime reclines on the desk while Oikawa rocks in the leather chair. The renovations are done here so the dark green wallpaper is radiant against the polished dark wood of the wainscot. The scent of lacquer and paint sits heavy in the air. The silent floorboards are covered in replica era-appropriate rugs, their tassels still perfectly intact. The stained glass has been cleaned and the evening sun leaves patches of rainbow dancing across the wood. Tiny flocks of dust lazily float through the colored air.

The diary with its ribbon tied delicately around it sits alone on the restored desk. Iwaizumi had finished it earlier during his lunch break. The last entry ended abruptly on today’s date some ninety years ago. After some hardcore googling, Hajime discovered the author had been killed the day of the last entry. He had been sneaking in through the servant’s entrance in the middle of the night and had accidently walked in on an illicit operation. They killed him on spot. Only months later after chasing after the crooks did the police discover the body of the boy (buried under the stable) and his cause of death (two bullets to the heart). Iwaizumi had shivered when he read that the boy had been just barely older than himself. The boy was supposed to meet up with his pen pals the next day. Iwaizumi remembered a lot of entries mentioning them; the author was very close to them. _I wonder what they must have thought when they heard this._

Hajime turns his hand in the sunlight, enjoying the warmth. He observes the colors twist and melt over his skin. How weird it would be to die and never feel these sorts of things again. 

“Hey, Iwa-chan, you want to do something fun tonight?”

Iwaizumi looks up. “Didn’t I tell you to stop calling me that? And haven’t we been shitting around enough?”

Oikawa mimes throwing the diary at Iwaizumi. “Don’t sass me!”

Iwaizumi laughs. “Don’t ruin that book, Trashy-kawa; it’s one of a kind.”

Oikawa huffs and crosses his arms, pouting. “Here I am, going to share a personal experience with you and you’re making fun of me. So mean!”

Iwaizumi ruffles his hair and shoves him away. “Stop being a drama queen.”

“But don’t you love it?” 

“Just shut up and tell me your plans.”

Oikawa smirks and leans close. He radiates cold causing Iwaizumi to shiver. “It’s a secret.”

“Guess I won’t be joining you then.”

“Wait no.” Oikawa looks slightly hurt and worried. This surprises Iwaizumi. Usually, Oikawa reminds him of an actor with his words and expressions. He is very controlled and rarely let unprocessed emotions show on his face. This is like a crack in his mask. 

Iwaizumi flicks a piece of his hair that had fallen in front of his face. “Don’t look so traumatized. Of course I’ll go with you.”

Oikawa pulls himself together and the mask is firmly back in place and his dramatics begin again. “But of course. Meet me in the kitchen at eleven. Wear something cute and warm.”

Iwaizumi snorts but when the time came, he shows up in the meeting place clad in a wool sweater Oikawa had found in the pool house the day before. Seeing as it had the slogan “Bug Lyf” above a beetle wearing shades and a snapback, they both concluded some hooligans had left it there and, well, finders keepers. 

“Aw, you wore the sweater I got you! How sweet.” Oikawa jumps off the counter he was sitting on and places a hand over his heart to go along with his saccharine tone. He pecks Iwaizumi on the cheek and jumps away. Iwaizumi bats him on the back of the head. Not hard enough to hurt but with enough force to muss Oikawa’s meticulously styled hair. 

“Shut up, Assy-kawa.”

“Iwa-chan, how you wound me,” Oikawa says in a tone that clearly does not contain any offense. 

Hajime rolls his eyes. “So why did you invite me here?”

Oikawa waves his hand and steps towards the delivery door. “Follow me.”

They walk outside and the cold breeze makes Iwaizumi thankful for his woolen protection. A couple thin clouds skirt around in the breeze. None of the path lights are on since the builders haven’t started on the outside work. They go past the teahouse and stables and Iwaizumi starts to worry. He’s only known Oikawa a couple of days. Usually Hajime is good at being careful and thinking things through but the whirlwind that is Oikawa Tooru has disheveled the priorities in his brain. Suddenly, Oikawa stops and falls back with a sigh.

“Aren’t you going to sit?” Oikawa looks up at him.

Iwaizumi picks at the hem of his sweater, twiddling his fingers around a loose thread. There’s not much around them except for grass and dandelions. He can hear the ocean crash against the shore nearby. It smells faintly of dead fish and seaweed and night. He sits down slowly and lays back when Oikawa waves at him.

“Look at the stars. They’re so clear here,” Oikawa says, pointing. “There’s the North Star and Ursula Minor and I think I can make out Libra.”

Iwaizumi sees the little dots of lights but can’t connect them in his mind. Still, it’s a beautiful view. The tiny specks tinkle and spread out as far as he can see and probably further than that. They felt so close and so far all at once. He felt so small and so immersed but it wasn’t scary. It was breath taking. 

“Isn’t it weird how some of these stars could be dead?” Oikawa comments dreamily after a while. “Because they’re light-years away we could just be seeing their light but the real thing could be long gone.”

“Like we’re seeing their ghosts.”

“Exactly,” Oikawa mumbles, unusually subdued. He looks troubled and is about to add something before he catches himself. Fixing a teasing look on his face, he asks, “Do you think the aliens are watching us?”

Iwaizumi shoves his shoulder. “Yeah, and they’re laughing at us for being out so late in the cold. Come on, let’s go; you feel freezing even through your jacket.” He gets up and dusts the grass and leaves off his sweater.

“Iwa-chan, are you my mom?”

“I thought I was your friend but not anymore I guess.”

Oikawa gasps. After recovering, he looks at him sideways with a knowing smirk. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess I was your only friend.”

Iwaizumi kicks at nothing and frowns at his shoes intensely. 

An unreadable expression passes Oikawa’s face before morphing into his ever-present smile. He stands up and picks a twig off of Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his hand sliding down his arm to his palm. Hajime could feel the cold emanating from his hand though his own palm felt warmer from the touch. 

“Well, perhaps my charm will brush off on you.”

“If it’s yours, I want none of it.”

“I’m positively beguiling and you know it.” Oikawa’s arrogant expression fades to a sad smile. “But honestly, if you can befriend someone like me, you can makes friends with anyone.”

Iwaizumi sighs. “That’s not really the issue; staying in contact is. I’m not interesting enough to warrant it.”

“Shut up; you’re plenty interesting. How many people do you know have restorers for parents and travel to all these cool places constantly? Wait, I take that back; you probably know lots of those people since you’re always around them.” 

Hajime punches Oikawa’s arm and huffs out a laughs. 

Oikawa laughs. He tugs on Iwaizumi’s hand to start walking and guides him around a dip in the ground. “You’re mad because you know I’m right. But maybe you’ve learnt something from the past couple of days. Or at least gathered enough experience to strike up conversations, maybe even embark on your own adventures.”

“You make it sound like you’re dying, not leaving for the night.”

Oikawa laughs once, more like a strong exhalation of breath than any noise associated with mirth. 

Iwaizumi frowns at his sudden change in demeanor. Maybe they are just tired and he couldn’t see his face in the dark. Oikawa’s words were often opposite of his tone or expression.

They reach the narrow metal door in the discreet part of the kitchen. It was below ground because the rich of golden age found it unsightly to have servants and deliveries going on so blatantly. One mustn’t see the behind of the scenes work of their grand illusion. Iwaizumi tries the handle but it doesn’t budge. He swears under his breath and yanks on it. 

“Oikawa, I think we’re locked out. All the other doors were closed hours ago to protect the work and artifacts.” He bites the inside of his cheek and runs a hand through his short hair, suddenly very aware of the cold air and how alone they are.

Oikawa looks almost as uneasy as Iwaizumi felt. He sighs, looking resigned. 

“I had really hoped that it wouldn’t happen…” 

“Oikawa? What wouldn’t happen?” His voice wavers a bit.

Oikawa smiles sadly at him, the shade from the lamp hiding half his face. “It was truly wonderful spending time with you, Hajime. It was great to have so much fun again.” 

“Tooru…?” Iwaizumi quietly calls, his voice tripping over the syllables of the name he’s never felt allowed to use until now. 

Oikawa reaches for the door handle and his hand passes through. There’s a brief click before he pulls his hand back.

“Just so you know, that diary was mine,” Oikawa adds with a laugh, a real one this time. “Isn’t my writing truly splendid?”

Iwaizumi stands confused and shocked. “Are you…?”

“Dead? A ghost? A glimpse of something long passed like the stars?” Oikawa supplies. “Something like that. It was nice to come back for a while.”

That sentence knocks the sense back into Iwaizumi. “You’re leaving? But you just got here, Shitty-kawa!” 

Oikawa shrugs nonchalantly. “The dead are doomed to repeat the past.”

“But…” Iwaizumi has too many words he wants to fill in. _You’re my only friend. Did you come back because I found your diary? Is today when you died? How can you leave so soon, you asshole?_

Oikawa tries to rest a hand on his cheek but Iwaizumi only feels a cold vapor. 

“You’ll do fine without me, Iwa-chan” He says it so brightly and happy and with an eye roll that it make Iwaizumi want to smack him for not preserving the drama of the moment. 

Oikawa leans close and Iwaizumi closes his eyes. He feels a cold brush on his lips and exhales. A reciprocated cold burst of air flows over his face. He opens his eyes, extremely aware of how his eyes move and his eyelashes brushing his skin and the saliva strings snapping as he opens his mouth. 

Oikawa parts his lips to say something but his figure is fading and no sound is made. Iwaizumi is left standing in the cold with too many thoughts and no one to tell them to. 

He walks in the kitchen in a daze, collapsing with his back against the center island. The cold seeps in through his sweater and it’s nothing like the comforting chill of Oikawa. He stares at his hands, traces the handprint on his face and the cold over his lips. Tipping his head back, he closes his eyes and tries to think back to meeting Oikawa. He goes over all their adventures, their chats and everything points to Oikawa being dead. The coldness, the language, the clothes, the startling similarities to the stories in the diary. He searches for evidence of Oikawa’s legitimacy and comes up with nothing.

_Was he even real?_

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually an edited version of a short story I wrote for my creative writing class lol
> 
> hmu on tumblr @hipster-yams


End file.
